


Forgiveness

by mikkimouse



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: All the apologies, Apologies, Gen, M/M, POV Stiles, Pre-Slash, pre-Season 3B
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 23:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkimouse/pseuds/mikkimouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At Ms. Morrell's suggestion, Stiles apologizes. He's got a long list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

> Halfway through December I got a burning desire to see my favorite characters apologize for all the dick moves they've pulled over the past 2.5 seasons. This fic is the result. 
> 
> I still haven't seen 3.13, so this is canon up to 3.12.

It all starts with Mrs. Morrell.

(Well, it all _actually_ started because Stiles wanted to go look for a goddamn body in the Beacon Hills Preserve, but he spends enough time thinking about the "what ifs" and "if onlys" in the middle of the night, when he can't sleep, when the darkness is so thick he feels like he's choking and his mind spins with all the dumb shit he's done, the horrible decisions he's made. He wishes he could go back and fix it, wants to go back and scream at himself to do things differently, but every new day dawns and takes him further away from those points.

This thing, it starts with Mrs. Morrell.)

Stiles is more than a little surprised when she shows back up to the high school, particularly since Scott had told him Deucalion had used her chest as a dartboard. But she comes back two weeks after the Nemeton thing, obviously favoring her left side, and gets right back to counseling high school students on what classes to take and where to apply for college.

And thanks to Mr. Jones, the new chemistry teacher who is (amazingly) even _more_ of a dickbag than Harris was, Stiles is back to weekly sessions with her.

Stiles won't speak to her for the first session, and after that, won't talk about anything not related to school (because being absolutely silent for an entire 45-minute session is a lot harder than it sounds). He knows he isn't fooling her for a second, but it doesn't matter. She trapped Scott and Derek in a fucking _bank vault_ with a near-feral Boyd and Cora. Stiles isn't going to forgive her for that anytime soon.

"Have you considered apologizing?" Mrs. Morrell says one day, out of the blue.

Stiles looks up from the straw he's currently mangling. "Huh?"

"Apologizing," Mrs. Morrell repeats calmly. "Asking for forgiveness. Attempting to let go of some of the guilt."

He debates feigning ignorance and decides it would be pointless. "No." And then, because he's an asshole, says, "Have you?"

She doesn't break his gaze. "Yes."

Stiles blinks. He hadn't expected that.

Mrs. Morrell folds her hands on the desk in front of her. "I've heard it said that you only regret the things you've never done, but unfortunately, I have not found that to be the case." She smiles sadly. "You can regret a great many things you've done, particularly when those things hurt people you care about. It doesn't matter if you had the best of intentions, doesn't matter if you were working off information you believed to be right that later turned out to be wrong. It still hurts them, and it's still your fault—or at least, you perceive it that way. Guilt sits there, like a weight, eating away at you, making things darker than they have to be."

Stiles almost drops his drink, because he knows those words were chosen deliberately and wait, why is he surprised? She's related to Deaton, for God's sake. He's probably told her everything about the Nemeton. (Of course, it'd be the first time that man was forthcoming with any sort of information.) "Why do you think I feel guilty?" he says, because he has to say _something_. "I don't feel any guilt."

Mrs. Morrell just raises her eyebrows, and even though Stiles _knows_ she isn't a werewolf, he's pretty sure she just heard the lie. "It's just a suggestion," she says, still in that infuriatingly calm voice. "Sometimes asking others for forgiveness can help you start to forgive yourself. And that's the hardest part, isn't it?"

Her words hit way too close for comfort, like little stabbing needles in a part of him he'd thought had gone dead after the Nemeton. Stiles has to resist the urge to rub his chest and looks away from her too-knowing gaze. Normally he'd play the blinking game but right now he's not sure what his face is doing and he doesn't want her reading any more from it than she already has.

Thank God, the bell rings, and his time is up for another week.

Stiles shoves out of his chair, almost knocking it over, and grabs his backpack. "I've got to get to class."

"Stiles."

Something in her voice stops him, but he doesn't turn back around.

"You're already carrying a weight that's not going away. Don't cling to bricks you don't have to."

_Yeah, whatever._ He shrugs his backpack over his shoulder. "See you next week."

***

Stiles has every intention of ignoring Morrell and her little pep talk, and does for about three days. Then, late Saturday night or early Sunday morning—because sleep is for people who don't have nightmares about their friends getting their throats slit—he sits down and makes a list of all the ways he's fucked up the past year.

It's a long list.

***

One would think he'd go to Scott first, because Scott's his best friend and they've known each other long enough that Stiles barely even remembers life pre-Scott, but he can't. He knows Scott would forgive him—is positive Scott would forgive him—but there's a little weaselly voice in the back of his head that keeps saying "And if he doesn't?"

And Stiles thinks of what that would mean and he can't deal with that right now, all right?

So he goes to Allison. (He's going alphabetically. He's _not_ being a coward.)

He grabs her right after class one day, before she can go hook up with Lydia and Isaac. "Hey, can we talk?"

Allison frowns, obviously confused—because pretty much the only reason Stiles has ever talked to her before has been Scott-related—but she nods and follows him out of the school to a bench well away from the rest of the students fighting to get out of the building and the parking lot.

"Is everything all right?" Allison asks.

She sounds concerned; of course she would. Stiles kind of wants to smack himself. He's not doing a good job with this. "Everything's fine. No rogue wolves or crazy teachers or random dead bodies, I swear."

The concern fades, and the confusion's back. "Soooo," Allison draws out the word, "what's up?"

"I'm sorry," he blurts out, because if there's anything Stiles is good at, it's blurting. "About your mom."

Allison freezes, her whole body stiffening and her eyes going cold. "Don't bullshit me," she snaps, and fuck, Stiles can hear the tears in her voice. "I know what she did, I know you're not—"

Stiles holds up his hands, in what he hopes still comes across as a gesture of peace. "Allison, wait, that's not what I meant. Will you let me explain?"

She glares daggers at him. "Make it _fast_."

Fast talking, he can do. "Am I sorry Derek fought her to get Scott back? Fuck no. Trying to kill your daughter's boyfriend because you don't like him still qualifies as an overreaction to me." Stiles takes a deep breath; he's shaking a lot more than he realized. "But..." He trails off and drags his hands through his hair. "I know what it's like to lose your mom. I know what it's like to know she's not coming back and to have all these things that you'll never get to say and all this stuff you'll never get to share and all those times that she's supposed to _be there_ and she won't be. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy and you're my _friend_."

Allison's not glaring at him anymore, but she's still breathing heavy and he can see the tears in her eyes and guesses they're pretty close to falling.

Stiles pauses long enough to get another breath and continues. "I'm not gonna say I know how you feel, because I don't, because it's completely different. But...she's your _mom_ ," he says, and puts as much feeling into the word as he can because he knows what it means. "It doesn't matter how or why it happened, it still sucks _ass_. And I'm sorry for being such a dick about it."

She's still staring at him, eyes still swimming with tears, and then she starts laughing. _Laughing._

Crying he expected. A slap in the face was also on the list. Or a Chinese ring dagger to the kidney. Laughing? Not a reaction Stiles anticipated.

Allison keeps laughing, sinking onto the bench next to them, burying her face in her hands. Cautiously, Stiles sits on the opposite side of the bench and waits.

She finally looks up again after God only knows how long. "Do you know what really sucks?" she says.

Stiles shakes his head.

"I can't...fit it in my head. My mom took me shopping and taught me to play chess and showed me how to mend clothes and bake and stitch up wounds." Allison takes a shaky breath and wipes her eyes. "And then she drugged my boyfriend and tried to _kill_ him. Because she didn't like what he was. And then she _killed herself_ and my dad _helped her_. I just can't make it make sense to me." Allison stares at her hands. "At least your mom didn't choose to leave you," she says in a soft voice.

Stiles...cannot argue with that. "We should start a club," he says, and where the fuck did that come from? "The Dead Parents Club. Isaac can be president."

Allison chokes and turns to him, trying to look appalled but there's a smile twisting at her lips. "You're terrible."

He sighs. "I know. It keeps me up at night."

The last time he'd said that, he'd been joking. He wishes he still was.

***

That night, the "alphabetically" excuse meets the same fate as both Death Stars when Stiles looks at the next name on his list.

Nope, he's a coward.

***

Stiles goes to Lydia next. She's actually a little easier to get alone than Allison, probably because she's studying an intimidating calculus book at lunch and sending a glare at anyone who comes close that sends them scurrying in the other direction.

Considering his sense of self-preservation is negligible at best, Stiles ignores the glare and sits across from her.

Lydia immediately goes back to her book. "I'm busy."

"Five minutes," Stiles says.

Lydia sighs and drags her eyes away from the book. "What?"

Blurting seemed to work pretty well with Allison, so he goes for it again. "I'm sorry for lying to you."

Lydia's expression doesn't change.

Stiles forges ahead. "I should've told you the truth sooner. About..." He waves his hand to encompass everything, because he can't say "all the werewolf shit" in the middle of the cafeteria. "When shit first started going down with Jackson, at the latest. We shouldn't have hidden it from you as long as we did. Hell, I should've told you that night we were all stuck in the school. If I had...maybe things would've been different."

_Maybe you wouldn't have been alone on the goddamn lacrosse field_ is what doesn't come out.

Lydia continues to regard him with the same blank look, and for a moment Stiles worries he's somehow broken her. Then she sniffs and folds her arms over the book. "I wouldn't have believed you."

He blinks. "What?"

"If you'd told me before Jackson had his little snake problem, I wouldn't have believed you," she says. "It's not your fault Peter attacked me, Stiles. Neither is anything else that happened after."

Stiles has to remind himself that she's not a mind reader, but the way her eyes are piercing into him right now, it's difficult to believe. "I still should've told you sooner. I could've been a better friend." _Could've been a friend at all, instead of acting like a kid with a crush_ , he thinks, but can't quite say. "And I'm sorry I wasn't."

Lydia purses her lips. "True. What will you do when I decide to go after Peter?" she asks, arching one perfectly shaped brow.

When, not if, Stiles notes. "You kick his ass, I'll hold your flower."

The way she smiles at him, Stiles is pretty sure that was exactly what she wanted to hear. "Good."

"You might have to let Scott get at least one swipe in," Stiles says, even though he's not entirely sure if Scott will take it.

Lydia considers, then tosses her strawberry-blonde hair over her shoulder and shrugs. "I suppose he's earned it."

***

That night, Stiles sleeps for four hours straight for the first time in months, and in his dreams, Lydia sets Peter on fire instead of the other way around.

***

He doesn't get a chance to talk to his dad until almost ten the next night. Stiles makes dinner, cleans the kitchen, starts laundry, vacuums the living room, finishes his chemistry and English homework, folds the laundry, and finally falls into the Wikipedia rabbit hole doing some research for their bestiary, all in an effort to keep himself occupied and not falling apart from nerves.

He picks up his phone a dozen times, starts to type a text with the thought that he'll kill two birds with one stone, get two apologies done tonight. Every time, he throws his phone back down on the bed.

Still a coward.

His dad gets home thirty minutes later than he was supposed to (long enough for Stiles to start worrying), takes one look at the waiting dinner and the spotless kitchen, and raises his eyebrows in a look of incredulity. "I'm being bribed, aren't I."

Stiles fidgets, tries to act offended. "What, I can't make my dad some dinner without it being a bribe?"

Dad jerks a thumb at the laundry room. "You did laundry. You hate laundry."

_The perks of being related to a cop_. Stiles doesn't know which is worse, that his dad assumed Stiles only did this to bribe him or that he's right.

His dad bypasses the dinner on the table and steps over to the side of the kitchen where Stiles is standing. "What's wrong, kiddo?"

He shuffles his feet and can't meet Dad's eyes just then. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, his voice practically echoing in the quiet kitchen. "I'm sorry about...I should've told you about Scott sooner, about werewolves and everything—"

Dad sighs. "Stiles—"

"I'm sorry I lied," Stiles cuts in, because he's going to finish this before he breaks down. "At first it was because I knew you wouldn't believe it and I was trying to keep you safe, but then it was actually _worse_ for you not to know and I didn't see it. And if I'd seen it, if I'd told you sooner, then it would've—you could've—"

_If I'd told you sooner, you'd have believed me about the Darach. You'd have known what you were up against, you wouldn't have been taken, because I can't lose you too._

His dad doesn't say anything, just loops an arm around Stiles's shoulders and then he's being hugged like he's five years old again. "It's all right, Stiles," he says, and then, after a moment's hesitation, "You up for telling me why you haven't been sleeping lately?"

What the hell, he's feeling uncharacteristically honest. In a halting voice, Stiles stammers out what happened with the Nemeton. It's not that he'd been keeping it from his dad, exactly, but after the whole "werewolves are real" conversation and explaining just what had been going on over the past year, he'd glossed over the part where he and Scott and Allison had drowned themselves to keep their parents from becoming sacrifices. Partly because his dad had already looked like he was having trouble wrapping his mind around everything else, and Stiles wanted to give him a little time to adjust his worldview.

And then partly because, well, the whole coward thing.

Dad doesn't say anything as he talks, just hugs Stiles a little tighter.

"Are you mad?" Stiles asks when he finishes, his throat tight and scratchy.

"I'm trying hard not to be," Dad admits.

"Dad, she was going to _kill you_. I couldn't—"

Dad cuts him off. "I didn't say I didn't understand. I said I'm trying not to be mad. You know the worst thing that can happen to a parent? Losing a child."

"Oh," Stiles says, dumbly, because he...really hadn't thought about that, when he'd made the decision: what would happen to his dad if he didn't make it back.

"I know you have a thing about being a hero—"

Stiles hunches his shoulders. "I'm not a hero."

Dad snorts into his hair. "Whatever. Just remember there are people who have a vested interest in you staying alive, all right? Keep that in mind whenever you're making these plans." There's a pause, and then Dad speaks again, this time much gruffer than normal. "You're all I've got left, too, you know."

Stiles nods, because he can't really speak anymore. Even so, because he can't leave it... "At least until you ask Melissa out," he manages to force out over the lump in his throat.

His dad groans and flicks his ear. "For God's sake, Stiles."

But, Stiles is pleased to note, he doesn't entirely deny it.

***

For the first time in weeks, Stiles doesn't dream. He sleeps until 6:30 a.m. and stares at the clock in sleepy bewilderment for ten minutes before he gets up and gets ready.

***

Something about talking to his dad makes it easier to talk to Scott, and Stiles does so the next day when they're playing Halo 3 and Scott is _murdering_ him. You'd think werewolf reflexes wouldn't translate to fucking video games, but no.

Stiles hits pause after Scott gets in another headshot and does the blurting. "I'm sorry about dragging you out to the Preserve to look for a dead body." He pauses. "And for the dog bowl."

Scott does not seem terribly surprised at this turn of events. He looks at Stiles thoughtfully. "The dog bowl was a dick move."

Stiles winces. "Yeah." It might _also_ have been a little vindictive.

Scott shrugs. "It's fine. And besides...I was an asshole for awhile after I got the bite. And I took a lot of it out on you."

"Dude, it was my fault you were out there in the first place," Stiles protests.

Scott rolls his eyes and sets down his controller. "I could've told your dad I was there instead of hiding behind a tree and trying to make it back on my own in the dark. I could've said, 'No, Stiles, let's play video games until Mom gets home and yells at us for being up past bedtime on a school night.' I didn't. I went with you. Even if going out there was your _idea_ , it wasn't your _fault_ , dumbass."

He looks away from Stiles and fidgets. "Seriously, I didn't...you were trying to help me out, you were the _only one_ helping me out, I literally _would not be alive_ if it weren't for you, and I spent most of my time blowing you off for Allison and throwing you into walls and then angrily making out with the girl you had a crush on."

Stiles stares at him. Scott sounds...he hasn't heard Scott sound this wrecked since that night on the hospital roof.

"I'm sorry for being an asshole," Scott says softly. "You're my best friend, and I...there's a lot of shit I should've done differently. I'm sorry."

For once in his life, Stiles is just about speechless. "It's all right," he finally says, when his brain kicks back on and reminds him he should say _something_. "I get it. You're my brother, Scotty. That hasn't changed."

Scott looks over at him, relief evident on his face. "Yeah?"

Stiles kicks him, lovingly. "Yeah."

Scott elbows him in return and grabs his controller. "Morrell?" he asks.

Stiles starts at the name. "Wait...she talked to you too?"

Scott nods. "I think she got to Allison as well, because Isaac told me she very tearfully apologized about the ring daggers. And, well, pretty much everything she did after her mom."

Stiles considers this new knowledge, wants to be irritated that Morrell's giving this advice to all of them, but... "Are you sleeping better?"

Scott swallows and nods. "I know it sounds weird, but yeah. Not like, great, but better than I have been."

Stiles relaxes back against the couch. "Me too."

They play companionably for a few moments before Scott asks, "Derek on your list?"

Stiles tenses at the question. "Yeah," he finally says. "Yours?"

" _Oh_ yeah." Scott sounds drained. "I finally had to stop writing down all the shit I did because it was getting depressing. It started with 'sorry for digging up your sister's dead body and getting you arrested' and I stopped somewhere around 'sorry for making you bite Gerard and not telling you what I was doing.'" He rubs his heart. "Somehow I don't think 'sorry for being an asshole' is going to cut it in this case."

Stiles can't disagree, because it's the same damn reason he hasn't called Derek himself. The list is too long. "Yeah, I don't think it will."

***

The next day at school, Stiles gets a text message from Scott.

**I'm sorry for dumping sand on your head in kindergarten.**

Stiles laughs so hard he falls out of his chair. The detention he gets from Mr. Jones is worth it.

***

Things aren't...normal, over the next couple of days, but they're better. Scott seems to smile easier, Allison doesn't look quite as lost, and Stiles...well, he's had three days in a row where he hasn't woken up after an hour with pants-shittingly terrifying nightmares still playing in his brain, so he's starting to feel like sleep is a good thing again.

He and Scott continue to text each other apologies for the dumb shit they've pulled throughout their lives, and while none of it makes Stiles laugh as hard as it did the first time, it usually makes him smile.

It's nice to smile again because of genuine amusement. Stiles had begun to think he'd forgotten how.

So of course, that's when he decides to visit the graveyard.

He parks the Jeep outside the gates and looks for a long time. He's here, he might as well get it done, but...it's hard. For a number of reasons. Not the least of which is because it's fucking depressing he has as many dead people on his list as living ones.

But the worst part is there's no one here to tell him it's okay. And Stiles isn't sure he can forgive himself. Not when there isn't a way to make it right, when there isn't anything he can say to make it better because there isn't anything he can do to bring them back.

He goes anyway.

It's just as bad as he expects it will be, visiting Boyd and Erica and Heather. Probably worse, if he's being honest with himself. He barely makes it past "Hey, Catwoman" at Erica's grave before he breaks down, takes him a good two minutes to get his voice to work at Heather's. He sounds like a broken record to himself, when the words finally come out.

_I'm sorry I wasn't fast enough. I'm sorry didn't figure it out sooner. I'm sorry I didn't work harder to find you. I'm sorry I wasn't a better friend when I could've been._

If only he'd been smarter, if only he'd seen the pattern faster, if only he and Scott and Derek and Isaac had gotten their collective heads out of their asses and worked together _sooner..._

Maybe Boyd and Erica wouldn't have been taken. Maybe they'd have been able to find them earlier. Maybe Heather wouldn't have gotten caught up in the supernatural bullshit that has become his whole fucking _life_.

Stiles doesn't know which is worse: ignoring the guilt and hoping it will go away (even though it won't), or acknowledging it, verbalizing it, and dealing with the crushing realization that this is not something he can fix. He doesn't feel better, not the way he did after talking to Allison and Lydia and Dad and Scott, but he at least feels like he's not hiding from anything anymore, like saying it aloud unknotted something. It hurts, but in a different way.

By the time he makes his way back to the Jeep, it's after sunset. He's completely destroyed and really not looking forward to sleep, when he decides _fuck it_ and digs out his phone. He types the text he's erased a hundred times over the past several days and hits "send."

**I'm sorry I got you arrested.**

It's not everything he needs to say to Derek, but it's a start.

***

Stiles expects he'll hear from Derek sooner or later. He doesn't expect it to be sooner and he sure as hell doesn't expect "sooner" to be "that same night."

He stumbles his way upstairs after marathoning half a season of _Doctor Who_ via Netflix, hoping to have tired himself out enough to sleep. His dad's been called out to something that, thankfully, doesn't sound like a supernatural issue, so Stiles is hoping he'll be back within a couple of hours.

He shoulders open his door, flips on a light, and starts to drag his shirt over his head.

"You're sorry you got me arrested?"

Stiles jumps, shouts, and flails, which is a bad combination at the best of times and even worse when he's got his arms tangled in his shirt. He slams into the side of his desk— _fuck_ , that's going to leave a mark—and the wall before he manages to coordinate himself enough to yank his shirt back on and see Derek standing in the corner.

Of course he is. Creeperwolf.

Stiles sighs and sinks into his desk chair. So much for going to sleep, what with the minor heart-stopping _terror_. "Holy fuck, warn a guy!"

Derek just eyebrows at him before taking a seat at the edge of Stiles's bed. "Sorry."

"You can use the front door, you know," Stiles says.

Derek shrugs and looks back at the window. "Old time's sake."

Stiles decides he really can't say anything considering all the times he's used Scott's window to visit him.

It's been awhile, since he last saw Derek; Stiles tries not to think about how long it's been, tries not to think about how much it had hurt that he'd left without saying a word to anyone.

Derek's not quite as big as he was when he'd left; his leather jacket seems to fit him a little looser and his shoulders don't look quite as broad. Stiles wonders if it's because of the no-longer-an-Alpha thing or if Derek's not taking care of himself. His guilt issues probably exceed Stiles's, if he had to guess.

Stiles opens his mouth to say yes, he's sorry about the getting arrested thing and digging Laura up and using Kate to hurt Derek because no matter how angry he was that was a _really_ dick move, but "What are you doing back?" comes out instead.

Derek holds up his phone. "Scott said you needed to talk to me."

Stiles doesn't bother to conceal his shock at that. "You talked to _Scott_?"

Derek looks hesitant, but nods. "Yeah. It was..." He shrugs a shoulder and glares at the corner of the room, but Stiles knows him well enough now to know that myriad emotions are working their way through those eyebrows and pretty eyes. "Necessary," Derek finally finishes.

Yeah, Stiles has a feeling it'll be awhile before Derek and Scott get to "okay."

Derek finally turns his gaze back to Stiles. "So what did you want to say?"

Stiles freezes. There are a lot of reasons he kept putting off talking to Derek, but the biggest one, when he gets down to it, is that Derek is the only real unknown. Because when he lets himself acknowledge it, he's afraid that's why Derek left. And Stiles isn't sure if an apology, no matter how sincere, will make things better or worse.

He tries to find something to do with his hands—putting them on his knees, sitting on them—and finally settles on linking them and letting them dangle between his legs. "I'm sorry," he says. "For a lot of things."

Derek doesn't say anything, but his eyebrows jump up a little in the gesture Stiles has learned means "go on."

"Like, for getting you arrested, definitely." Stiles shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck. "And for, um...for bringing up Kate. At the hospital."

He doesn't miss the way Derek tenses up, and it makes him feel about two inches tall.

"It's...I understand," Derek says slowly. "You were pissed off and scared."

"That's not an excuse," Stiles shoots back. "I _was_ , but it was still an asshole thing to do."

"You _are_ an asshole."

"Well, yeah, but there are _lines_." Stiles looks at the floor because he can't look at Derek anymore. "I took a flying leap across that one."

_Because I was angry and so fucking terrified of losing my dad and I took it out on you, trying to hurt you as much as I was hurting. And that makes me hate myself because I kind of like you, sourwolf, and I don't_ want _to hurt you._

There's a soft snort. "It's fine, Stiles."

Stiles shakes his head. "No, it's—"

" _Stiles_." Derek says his name so forcefully that Stiles has to look up. Derek looks somehow earnest and serious all at once, making his face more intense than usual. "I forgive you."

_Oh._ Something in his chest breaks, and Stiles feels like a weight's slid off of him. Derek forgave him. Derek doesn't hate him. He's pretty sure he's gaping like a fish, but he didn't actually expect things to go this way.

Derek sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, too," he says, his voice so soft Stiles almost can't hear it. "I acted like an idiot because I was...lonely...and a lot of people died. And that almost included your dad and Scott's mom." He hesitates. "I know how it feels to lose everyone, and...I would never want to put anyone else through that, least of all you."

Stiles sees the way Derek's hunching in on himself, like he's bracing for a blow, and just... _no_ , all right? Stiles practically launches himself out of his chair and lands on the bed next to Derek, so they're sitting side-by-side. "It's not your fault."

Derek doesn't look at him. "I should've—"

" _Dude_." Stiles grabs Derek's hand and squeezes it. "If it'll make you feel better to hear me say I forgive you then I do, but seriously, I never blamed you for any of that. It's not your fault your girlfriend turned out to be a psychotic murderous bitch. You want to apologize for something, apologize for being all close-lipped and mysterious when we could've used some _words_."

It's then he realizes he's still basically holding Derek's hand, and holy crap, that could very well end poorly. But Derek's not tense, and he's not pulling away; he's just sitting there, his arm and leg a continuous line of heat next to Stiles. His hand is large and warm and Derek doesn't seem like he's going to move it anytime soon, which...well, is kind of mind-blowing considering that Stiles has been on the receiving end of the "hands off my jacket before I remove them from your body" glower too many times to count.

"I'm sorry for slamming your head into the steering wheel," Derek says.

Stiles winces at the memory. "It's all right. I think I kind of deserved that one. I'm sorry for pimping you out to Danny."

Derek smirks a little, the corner of his mouth just barely twitching up. "You should be more sorry for naming me Miguel."

Stiles laughs weakly. "You made an adorable Miguel."

"And I'm sorry for leaving without saying good-bye," Derek says.

Stiles feels something heavy descend in the air and it's suddenly hard to breathe, and he meets Derek's eyes because he can't _not_ look at him now. There's an openness to them that Stiles isn't accustomed to; like he's getting a chance to see through the walls Derek keeps around himself literally _all the time._

"Why?" Stiles asks, because he has to know.

Derek's gaze drops to his lap, or rather, to their interlinked hands. "I...couldn't stay. Not after everything. I had to get away before it drove me crazy. And..." He trails off a little, rubs his thumb over Stiles's hand in such a way Stiles doesn't think he realizes he's doing it. "I couldn't say good-bye because I couldn't stand the thought of hearing 'good riddance' in return."

Stiles leans against him, hard, and Derek grunts a little but doesn't otherwise move. "I..." Stiles tries to talk, but his mouth is dry, and he has to swallow a couple of times before he can make the words work. "I missed you, dumbass," he says, but there's no heat to the words and probably more hurt than he meant to come out.

Derek squeezes his hand. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I missed you, too. Brat," he adds gently.

Stiles scowls. "Jerk."

"Bitch."

Stiles feels his eyebrows shoot to his forehead and has to sit back to look at Derek. "Did...did you just...?"

Derek's actually _smiling_ at him, tentatively, like he's waiting for Stiles to get the joke, and holy shit, that is simultaneously the best and worst thing that has ever happened to Stiles because his heart does something it has literally _never done before_ and fuck, that little crush he thought he'd gotten over surges back with an overwhelming force.

"Oh my God, you watched _Supernatural_ ," Stiles says, clapping his free hand over his heart and hoping sheer idiocy will keep Derek from noticing the stupid backflips his pulse is doing. "You watched _Supernatural_ and you _made a reference_. Oh my God, Derek, we should bronze this moment forever. Derek Hale is making pop culture references. Scott's never going to believe me."

Derek shakes his head, but he's still _smiling_ and it's _fond_. He squeezes Stiles's hand again and then stands up, finally letting go of him. "I should go." He jerks his shoulder at the window. "I didn't mean to stay so long. Scott said you haven't been sleeping well."

"Stay."

Derek looks at him, confused, and Stiles mentally smacks himself for leading with that and sounding so...okay he won't think about how he sounded. "You don't have to if you don't want to, but it's...my dad's not home and being alone makes it worse, sometimes."

For some reason, it doesn't bother him the way he thought it would, letting Derek know how vulnerable he feels this way.

Derek frowns, but it's a thinking frown, not an angry one. "I'll stay until your dad gets home," he says. "That okay?"

Stiles nods. He'll take it. "Yeah. Yeah, that's okay."

Derek picks up a book off his bookshelf and holds it up. "You mind?"

Stiles shakes his head, undresses, and dives under the covers of his bed while Derek flicks off the light and settles himself in the desk chair. "You can also use my computer, if you want," Stiles says (rather magnanimously, he thinks).

Derek doesn't raise his eyes from the book, but a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. "Go to sleep, Stiles."

Stiles lays down and stares up at the ceiling, listening to the steady sound of Derek's breathing and the soft crackle of turning pages. For the first time in months he feels...well, not _better_ , per se, but less weighed down, like there's maybe a light on the other side of the darkness that's been sitting on his soul. It's weak, but it's there.

He'll take it.

**Author's Note:**

> [I tumble for you!](http://mad-madam-m.tumblr.com/) (And apologies if that song's in your head now.)


End file.
